In Rex We Trust

Being the strong, silent type is overrated. That’s not to say it doesn’t have its merits, because it’s an admirable quality — if genuine.

Sadly, it’s too easy for guys who aren’t strong at all to pretend; the silent part is simple enough. Steve Carrell nailed it in The 40-Year-Old Virgin, dazzling an unsuspecting bookstore clerk who had no idea how emotionally repressed (read: sexually frustrated) Andy really was.

Bill Belichick, the NFL’s poster boy for saying nothing and everything at the same time, does it naturally. His standoffish, business-minded approach to the game became the model for all who followed. Most new coaches prefer to emulate his style, stopping short of dragging the scissor blades across their own hooded sweatshirts. The mastermind behind the New England Patriots dynasty went unchallenged by an opposing personality for nearly a decade.

And then Rex Ryan kicked the door down.

big-boned bad boy

Pushing his 340 pounds through the frame that NFL commissioner Roger Goodell carefully crafted, Rex Ryan was diligent in alerting everyone of his arrival. Predicting a post-Super Bowl meeting with President Barack Obama, firing warning shots to the entire league and engaging in offseason banter with division rivals, Ryan has made his intentions crystal clear: He plans to win on his own terms, and it’d be ill-advised to interfere.

The former coordinator of a Ravens defense that ranked in the top 10 since 2005 — and son of Buddy Ryan, defensive mastermind responsible for the dominance of the 1985 Super Bowl champion Chicago Bears — brought a reputation that he fully expected to protect and build.

honesty is key

More important than any of his accomplishments is his brash honesty. His abrasive persona came as a shock to the system, lingering as something crude and unfamiliar to the established order.

Rex Ryan stood in direct opposition to the proverbial Man. Scoffing at rehearsed statements and agent-prepared dialogue, Sexy Rexy crashed the party, changed the music (to something undoubtedly hardcore), burped out the last beers, and double-dipped his chips in your favorite salsa. He may have tampered with your girlfriend too — but that’s under investigation and he dares you to ask him about it.

It’s easy to identify fraudulence, and Ryan represents anything but. Is he too arrogant? Perhaps. Will it come back to bite him? Most definitely. Should it matter? Only to the weak.

Football is a game of competitors, filled with resilient men in the peak of physical fitness — and fans are expected to logically assume that a passive-aggressive head coach accurately represents the barbarian nature of professional football? Whatever, man.

There aren’t enough words to illustrate how necessary Rex is to an unimaginative NFL. In an era of cynical fans who frown upon the “No Fun League” and its ridiculous fining policies, shouldn’t this be the appropriate time for a borderline obnoxious fat guy who’s charming enough to pique your interest?

silence = minimal risk

The problem with strong and silent is that it comes with a built-in defense mechanism, able to ward off any form of criticism deployed in its direction. When the strong and silent fail, the perception is that their failure is still acceptable — essentially because it never broke character. The risk is minimal.

See, professional football is as much about chance and opportunity as it is about strategy. With so many coaches dedicated to the latter, it’s virtually impossible for any kind of fun to be had while playing the game. Browns coach Eric Mangini — the most diligent disciple of the Belichick way — will learn that in the most painful fashion imaginable. “We fear nobody. I'm not afraid of anybody. This is football,” said Jets linebacker Bart Scott, New York’s prize free-agent acquisition. “This ain't life or death here. It's a game. You can't be afraid to be great.”

Sounds like the mantra for the Rex Ryan regime, and I’m onboard — are you?